The Ghost of Hannah Mendes

by Naomi Ragen

  And I must admit, I harbored some soft, foolish hope that under more positive influences, Brianda might yet be redeemed from that disastrous tutoring that had made her the most selfish, foolish, and gold-loving of young women.

  For good or ill, Brianda was my family. Her worthiness or lack of it did not come into play. What I did for her, I did for my own flesh, my own blood. Even when she turned on me like the bitterest enemy, endangering my child, my life, and everything I owned with her cruel and foolish deeds, I always tried to remember that.

  Diogo had been living in Antwerp for many years, managing a branch of the House of Mendes. And it being a Christian country, and I having recently inherited half the House of Mendes, it was both expedient and natural for me to join him there as a first step toward achieving my goal.

  How strange a light time casts upon our memories, transforming them with the translucence of knowledge. I cannot look back and see my nephew Joseph as the thin young boy he must surely have been when my brother, Miguel, entrusted him to my care. Even in memory, he seems a tall and comely lad of graceful features and handsome form, someone upon whom I leaned rather than a child I must surely have embraced with my support.

  I was only twenty-six years old when I left my birthplace and the only life I had ever known; a sheltered, pampered daughter who had become the adored bride of a wealthy, generous man. Little did I suspect what harshness lay in the world, what cruel and insidious dangers. And as I look back and see myself waving goodbye, I feel a great wave of pity and of pride in the foolish courage that allowed me to dream that I might actually succeed.

  The Antwerp branch of the Mendes trading house had long overtaken its mother branch both in activity and in profits. This success was entirely due to Diogo’s remarkable abilities. His brilliant strategy was to establish a number of alliances. The first was with the great mercantile House of Affaitati in Cremona, Italy, through whom our spices were marketed throughout Europe. Soon, company agents were operating in England, Italy, France, and Germany, and the spices that had once graced only royal tables became part of every prosperous burgher’s household. This partnership soon allowed the House of Mendes to buy entire consignments of spices from the King of Portugal: six, eight, or even twelve hundred thousand ducats’ worth a year, and to dispose of them throughout northern Europe.

  The profits were so enormous that even now I would surely awaken the Evil Eye were I merely to describe them. Thus, I will say but this alone: G-d, in His Infinite Mercy, saw fit to bless the House of Mendes with such wealth that Diogo could not possibly employ more than a mere fraction of his capital in the firm’s own mercantile business. To put the profits to best use, he concluded another alliance with Fugger of Ausburg, the greatest banking house in Europe. Through Fugger, Diogo loaned out his profits to the money-hungry and profligate rulers of the world.

  Charles V, Holy Roman Emperor, ruler of Spain, the Netherlands, Naples, Sicily, Sardinia, and Austria was by far his greatest customer. Calling himself “G-d’s standard bearer,” his motto was “plus ultra.” Unfortunately, this was how the Emperor handled his debts.

  In those endless wars to gain dominion over the Moslem Turks and the Protestant rebels, his coffers were always bare. Indeed, less than a decade before I reached Antwerp, his army, furious at having received no pay, sacked Rome! Diogo loaned Charles 200,000 florins to conduct the Turkish war, and soon was asked to loan him more. Until the day he retired to his house in Spain to stare at works by Tintoretto, tinker with old clocks, and eat gluttonously, the Holy Roman Emperor was often deeply indebted to the House of Mendes for the very bread he ate.

  This, my children, was a most dangerous situation. For a borrower soon becomes an enemy whose only desire is to be free of both debt and lender! In 1532, just four years before we left to join him, Diogo had been arrested on charges of lèse-majesté. Had not a tremendous outcry gone up all over Europe, with the King of Portugal and Henry VIII demanding his release because his arrest would cause them bankruptcy, it might have ended very badly for the House of Mendes.

  As you can see, solid ground did not exist for our feet, and even as we walked upon it, it trembled. And thus, when I embarked upon my journey, it was not the last time I threw myself impetuously into G-d’s hands, as my fathers did when they plunged into the Red Sea, the Egyptians at their backs.

  The passage took several months, and included a stopover in England in which our ship was boarded by envoys from Henry bearing gifts, and a foppish Duke who had heard of my inheritance and sought to convince me of his instant and everlasting love. I thanked him for his attentions, but told him I had not yet concluded my year of mourning for my husband. When he returned the next day to plead his case anew, he found our ship had already sailed.

  When we finally arrived safely in Antwerp, I was overwhelmed with joy! What a city it was, sparkling with rare commodities hardly seen elsewhere: figs and raisins, ivory and Brazil wood, cotton, oil, and wine. Precious gems were being honed in little workshops, diamonds cut to unheard of brilliance. Everyone was prospering.

  Diogo’s mansion in Antwerp, where we took up residence, was striking in its outer appearance. But its true beauty lay within. I do not, my children, speak of furnishings. For a house is just a shell—no more—to be filled with the lives of its inhabitants, colored by all they do. Diogo Mendes’s home was a meeting place for anyone possessing some extraordinary quality of mind and heart.

  Joos van Cleve had come in from King Francis’s court at Fontainebleau and was painting the most delicate portraits. Antonio Moro, Hans Holbein, and Pieter Jansz Pourbus often met and argued about their art in front of the hearth. The unfortunate Mr. Tyndale was there, busy with his Protestant translations of the Bible until he was arrested and executed for heresy. His command of Hebrew was such that we asked him to tutor Joseph.

  But most of all, we found much happy companionship amongst the numerous Spanish and Portuguese conversos who shared our language, culture, and religious loyalties. What scholars they were! What brilliant writers, essayists, playwrights, physicians, and poets! Damião de Góis, Martin Lopez de Villanueva, whose even more brilliant nephew, Michel de Montaigne, was the golden diadem of French essayists.

  Our physician, young João Rodríguez of Castel-Branco who later became the most famous medical writer of his day, under the pen name of Amatus Lusitanus, was my dearest, dearest friend. He and his colleague, Dr. Pires, who wrote wonderful Latin poetry, calling himself Pyrrhus Lusitanus, became frequent visitors to the lively salon that served as our own royal court in Antwerp. In later wanderings, too, we often crossed paths.

  Although we did not dare to practice our religion openly, we rested on the Sabbath, did not eat prohibited food or leavened bread on Passover, and always kept fast days scrupulously. Moreover, our home often hosted secret prayer assemblies in which we allowed ourselves the indescribable comfort and joy of entering G-d’s mansions through the sacred portals of our ancestors, which no tyrant could force us to keep locked for long.

  Along with this, we nevertheless were forced to attend mass regularly, to be shriven and to act the part of good Christians, for anything less would have seen us all arrested and charged with heresy.

  Why did we risk so much, my children, for things that seemed so small? A word, a song, a meal, a prayer? And I answer you thus: What would not a man wandering in the desert do for tiny drops of water? The thirst of our souls was no different. It gave us no peace until we quenched it. But the more we drank, the more our thirst grew, until we dreamed of great pools of water in which to splash and laugh and swim and bathe.

  We dreamed of freedom without boundaries.

  As I said, my plan was to stop over in Antwerp, and from there to seek refuge in those places where we could finally throw off the oppressive yoke of tyranny and fear. After six months had passed, I grew anxious to continue my journey. I proposed to Diogo that he join us.

  “A shroud has no pockets, Diogo,” I said with great self-righteousness. �
�Surely the profits of the House of Mendes shall stand us in good stead all of our days!”

  “Ah!” he sighed deeply. “If only it were so simple! It is impossible, especially now.”

  It was then that I learned the terrible news: All those rich bribes lavished on King and Pope to stay the Inquisition at the Portuguese border had finally failed. As the days blackened with the growing shadow of that dark death moving inexorably from Spain to Portugal, there was only one way to save the intended victims: to move as many as possible secretly out of harm’s path.

  The escape route, I learned to my surprise, had long been in operation, with Francisco an active participant. This is how it worked: Our Portuguese spice ships would dock at Plymouth or Southampton with refugees, there to be boarded by a company agent who would describe the safest route in which to proceed to the Low Countries and from there to Turkey or Italy. Another agent would give them bills of exchange for their goods, which they could redeem at once from the company offices at their destination.

  It was not a fixed route. For every day, new decrees closed borders or filled others with the Inquisition’s spies. Every day, the latest information had to be passed on to those refugees still in the middle of their precarious journey. Even as we helped smuggle people over borders, we renewed our efforts to turn back the Pope’s black knights through the fabulous bribes that had so often worked in the past. New negotiations were already under way, Diogo informed me. If we succeeded, the wealth of the House of Mendes would be needed to save our brethren.

  I looked at my brother-in-law. He had never married. His fair hair was touched with gray now, and his once gay, youthful face clouded with care, the skin crisscrossed with lines of heavy thought. I knew I could not leave him to face these burdens alone.

  I touched his shoulder. “We are partners now. I will not leave.”

  A strange look of longing passed over his face, and he rose, taking my hand and kissing it.

  We became partners in every sense of the word, our lives fused with the oneness of purpose that comes to kindred spirits embarked on a great and noble enterprise. I tried to enter into the daily running of the House of Mendes, to understand where to cajole and where to bribe, where to be yielding and when not to bend. The House of Mendes was an empire, and for all purposes, Diogo and I were its king and queen. Our decisions affected our profits, and our profits the lives of thousands of our people. I dedicated myself heart, soul, and mind to making all our enterprises successful.

  On the surface we negotiated ever more profitable business ventures, overseeing the daily workings of our vast trading empire with meticulous care. But our true task was unseen. We plotted endlessly, bribing officials and magistrates, kings and members of the church to loosen the bands of tyranny growing ever tighter around our people’s throats. Within the year, we achieved a stunning success. It was decreed that New Christians might settle in Antwerp freely, with full rights, and with full immunity from prosecution for offenses committed elsewhere.

  I remember how we celebrated: The whole converso colony was there in Diogo’s pink marble salon, the great fire leaping on the hearth, the dazzling crystal chandeliers dancing on the walls like a shimmering rainbow, a Divine promise to end all destruction. We toasted to our victory.

  And when the guests had gone, we walked through the gardens side by side with only the faint light from the curtained windows to guide our way. The smell of jasmine and honeysuckle suddenly made me feel faint with longing. I steadied myself against Diogo, a sudden sharp feeling going through me, leaving me breathless.

  Marriage between us was impossible, forbidden by Mosaic laws. One brother could never marry another brother’s wife, with one exception: if she had been widowed and left childless. Then he was obligated to marry her.

  Reyna’s birth stood between us like an angel’s blazing sword.

  As we gazed at each other in the moonlight, I saw that his heart keened with mine for the union we would never know, which might have brought us so much happiness.

  Words never passed between us.

  But less than a fortnight later, Diogo asked my permission to marry Brianda.

  I did not know what to say, torn as I was between my sister’s immense good fortune and my knowledge of the failings of character which would make such a union disastrous. Also, I could not be sure that my heart was pure in wanting to prevent it. And so I held my tongue except to wish them both every happiness.

  Brianda was an ecstatic bride-to-be. Although she asked me to help her choose her trousseau, I saw that my presence and my advice were to be ignored. She chose the stones for her betrothal jewelry and gowns by size, rather than quality or taste, always picking the largest and most gaudy. She fretted that her gowns were to be made by local seamstresses, and insisted on compensating by choosing the most elaborate designs and the most showy, costly fabrics. She began to walk about the mansion with the airs of a mistress, disturbing the cook with demands, and upbraiding the housemaids with shrill commands until I was sorely tempted to wring her silly neck.

  I could see Diogo’s eyes grow tense as he received more and more complaints from his staff. But he said nothing to Brianda, simply contriving to be home less and less of the time.

  I finally confronted her.

  She tossed her head and told me that as she would soon be mistress of this house, the staff might as well grow used to her ways. As for me, she assured me that as long as we could continue to live together amiably she would have no objection to my staying on with Reyna after her wedding. But if there was to be quarreling, then it would be best for us to find our separate accommodations.

  “If I say but one word to Diogo of all I know about you, there won’t be a wedding,” I told her curtly.

  I could see my words hit the mark. After that and until her wedding night, she was as docile as a lamb, and as sweet-tempered as a good little girl. Nevertheless, I arranged for separate lodgings for myself and my staff as soon as I could.

  I must say that for a time, Diogo seemed genuinely happy.

  But slowly, almost imperceptibly, I saw the light fade in his eyes, whether from his marriage, or the dangers constantly eroding the foundations of our lives, I could not say.

  There was no stopping the Inquisition. The Holy Office was officially established in Portugal in 1539, and by 1542, the smoke from the first auto-da-fé began to char the bodies of my people. The stream of immigrants turned into a flood, the numbers reaching such proportions that in 1540, a commission was set up in Milan, which was under Spanish rule, to investigate the matter. As a result, mass arrests were made of New Christians en route to Ancona and Salonika, and the New Christian colony in Milan was imprisoned.

  Diogo and myself called an emergency meeting, attended by the leading New Christian merchants of Antwerp and our London agents. It was decided to raise a large sum to persuade the Milanese royal magistrates to suspend their investigation and activities. In addition, a sum of 2,000 ducats was sent to our agent in Milan, to try to ransom the prisoners, and to see to their food and clothing.

  During that time, one of our employees, Gaspar Lopes, was sent to Italy on business where he was promptly arrested. To save his own skin, he betrayed everything he knew. When the Emperor heard these reports, I suppose he saw the opportunity he had been looking for to free himself from repaying his loans. He immediately ordered his officials to investigate the New Christian community of Antwerp, especially Diogo Mendes.

  Diogo went into hiding. He had already been arrested once. It was just a matter of time before he would be caught again. In the face of such evidence, nothing would save him, or us, or the House of Mendes.

  I begged him to arrange for all of us to leave at once, finally convincing him that we could do no good to anyone were we to find ourselves penniless in the dungeons of the Inquisition.

  For many weeks, he hesitated. But then an event occurred that finally changed his mind.

  Brianda was with child.

  At long last, h
e agreed.

  We began to wind up our affairs, deciding that in twelve months’ time, we should find ourselves on the road again, this time toward true freedom.

  In due course, Brianda was delivered of a lovely baby girl, who brought great joy to all our hearts. At Diogo’s insistence, she was named Gracia.

  It was only a few weeks later that Diogo came down with that same strange fever that had killed his brother. He burned for three days and three nights, as Brianda and I took turns wetting his forehead with cool linens dipped in ice water. On the fourth, he seemed to improve. He sat up in bed and sipped a bowl of sweet almond broth. But as night fell, the fever returned and a swelling began in all his limbs, turning the joints blue.

  He was dead before the morning sun broke through the clouds again.

  May G-d spread wings of comfort over him, and may the Garden of Eden be his everlasting reward.

  There are many moments in a person’s life when he feels the great hand of destiny has slapped him down, but only a few when the great heel of fortune uses its full weight to grind his body and spirit utterly into the dust.

  This was such a moment. For within six years I had lost both husband and dearest friend, my only helpmates and shields from the terrors of a world suddenly revealed to me in all its poisonous horror; a world closing in on me and all those I loved.

  How I wanted to take to my bed, to weep and refuse to be consoled! Never in my life did I wish more to be allowed the womanly liberty of nervous collapse, of using the excuse of my sex to claim the right of incompetence. I wanted some protector to rise like a mythic hero from the dark shadows, surprising me with his strength and intelligence, the brilliance of his ability to rebuild from the splintering shards of my life something whole and firm.

  I could not comfort Brianda. I could not even stand to be in the same room with her, so panic-stricken and hysterical was she, moaning to all who would listen that the King’s Imperial Guard would at any moment knock on our doors and drag us off to the Inquisition.